Here's A Song Was Never Sung: Growing

Death Devours All Lovely Things.

What Lips My Lips Have Kissed, And Where, And Why, I Have Forgotten, And What Arms Have Lain Under My Head Till Morning, But The Rain Is Full Of Ghosts Tonight, That Tap And Sigh Upon The Glass And Listen For Reply, And In My Heart There Stirs A Quiet Pain For Unremembered Lads That Not Again Will Turn To Me At Midnight With A Cry. Thus In The Winter Stands The Lonely Tree, Nor Knows What Birds Have Vanished One By One, Yet Knows Its Boughs More Silent Than Before: I Cannot Say What Loves Have Come And Gone, I Only Know That Summer Sang In Me A Little While, That In Me Sings No More.

The Young Are So Old, They Are Born With Their Fingers Crossed.

If I Could Have Two Things In One: The Peace Of The Grave, And The Light Of The Sun.

There Is No God. But It Does Not Matter. Man Is Enough.